The Sacrifice

Image source: Pixabay

The Car

The moon showered its approving smile on a horde of figures circled around a fire. There was a chant in the air. A string of words in the Yoruba Language, forbidden to stray into the ears of the uninitiated. Their bodies swayed around the fire, attuning their souls to the spirit of the yearly itual. Like Abraham and Isaac in the biblical story, the horde had everything but the sacrifice itself.

A car engine roared its presence, its light searching a path down the curvy road. There were three beating hearts in the vehicle. The first pumped tired blood to the hands that wielded the steering wheel. The other struggled to maintain a steady pace, enough to keep the eyes opened. The third was a calm rush from a gentle waterfall, modulating the rise and fall of the chest as its host snored.

Tyres tried to glue themselves onto the road as a scared right leg hit the break in despair. The spirit of sleep gave up his wooing as the occupants in the car observed the spectacle before them. A figure stood on the road. Its body wrapped in a white wrapper, its face refusing to heed the demands of the searching headlight. The heart in the driver’s seat raced, trying to find an explanation for the figure before him.

The second was a heart whose cast of unbelief was being torn apart with a chisel driven by a sledge hammer. Eyes widened, refusing to accept that the sight before them was real. His lazy heart wondered if there was enough cause to raise an alarm. His brain said there was no reason to as everything always had a logical explanation.

The third heart slouched out of its comforting slumber. When the eyes from the backseat saw what was ahead, its vocal chords hit a register that could shatter glass.

That was the cue to leave. They scampered out of the vehicle like deer with a tiger on their trail. Grasses gave way in annoyance as the trio hurried into the bush without a sense of what lied ahead. They stopped at a tree whose large gave the comforting feel of a tower.

Frank

“That was a spirit, right?” Words forced through a lung overcrowded with panting air.

Frank looked at his companions, expecting some kind of response. Instead, he saw the fright in his heart reflect on their faces.

“We cannot stay here like this, I have to check if that creature is still there.” Frank announced. He felt young hands clutch his legs in a silent plea. He looked down to see the visible face of a young heart with a shade of quiet dread on its face.

“Oh dear. I’m not leaving you. I only want to check out the road. Stay with Uncle Kunle. I will be back very soon.” He bent to kiss warm forehead while his hands extricated his leg from the soft limbs.

Frank paused after walking for a while, surprised he hadn't hit the road yet. There was no visible path in sight. He turned to where he believed was the path back to the tree when he saw the fire from the distance.

He moved forward. His leg crushed against what seemed like wood but stronger. He bent down to look but the moonlight did not penetrate the grasses. He lifted his face to see the apparition before it. As before, it had a white wrapper around its body. Not her entire body. He knew her gender because he saw the firm molds on her chest.

Frank’s first instinct was to run but he had issues communicating his plans to his legs. Primal fear took over and he filled his lungs with air, preparing to cry to whatever god there was for help. Instead, his diaphragm expanded as his mouth gasped for air. Some unseen hands caressed his neck. He produced a choking sound.

Snap!

The sound of body hitting the ground was almost non-existent and for good reason. The body fell into an emptiness. Frank and the apparition were no more.

Kunle

“This is a joke!”

Kunle, perched on a giant root under the tree, muttered to himself. He begged his mind to declare the entire events as imaginations from tired minds. He thought about the speech he was going to deliver at the seminar. He was going to talk about the senseless superstitions in Africa. He believed that superstitions contributed to the lack of development in the region.

His speech was a strand from the intricate web of arguments he entertained in his head. He was working on explanations for the events that had occurred. He had one already. Frank’s obsession for Africa Magic Yoruba had forced him to endure two hours of screenplay. The two hours movie featured the diabolic activities of Yoruba witches.

He surmised that their tired bodies had superimposed exaggerated images from the movie. The apparition was a figment of their imagination. They had not even talked about it but he was sure they did not all see the same thing. Besides, it was the child’s cry that forced them to abandon the road and not some creature they felt they had seen.

A set of repeated taps from frighten young hands brought his mind back to the bush. He separated his glasses from his face while his left hand felt his pocket for a handkerchief. His hand was still in his pocket when he noticed the white among the green grasses.

Forget the handkerchief, his mind ordered, demanding the trusted opinion of his glasses. Glasses or no glasses, the white in front of him was there. It felt real, too real for the logical explanation he had in his hand.

Gentle hands pulled at his trousers as he stood to approach the figure. He was sure it was all a prank. He stopped within speaking distance and called out.

“Hello. Very funny what you did back there. Very good too, I must confess. How did you do that? You were in cahoots with Frank?”

His desire for answers motivated his legs to move through the shrubs. He lifted a hand and sought to feel the face that seemed like it was not there. His hand snapped at the elbow, sending a warning shot of pain through his nerves.

“You bastard!”

His attempt to hit the apparition with his left hand. He met with no resistance. There was nothing to hit. His hand fuelled by his rage flew in the air, its speed forcing him to swing along. He steadied himself, wondering where the figure was when he felt his hand divorce from his body. He turned to stare into nothingness where a head should be.. His cry was brief as the hand tore into his chest and freed his heart.

The Child

Young tired eyes watched the apparition approached, drag Kunle’s right arm by the wrist. The eyes knew they should express fear but they did not feel like it. Instead, they cast a stare as a child would do to an adult who acted in a strange but fascinating manner.

The apparition sought the heavy breathing, the chanting of a scared heart. Not this heart. Its chant was a calm rush from a gentle waterfall, modulating the rise and fall of the chest.

The apparition spread her hands in anger, an attempt to summon the spirit of madness. The child remained still, is gaze on the apparition. The apparition decided to give a second look.

The child’s hair was short, but enough to cover her scalp. The clothes were dull, blue shirt over ash knickers. What did she miss? The moon bided her to seek out the child's smell.

A single whiff and the apparition birthed a mother’s heart. A face modelled by the creator appeared as the head of the apparition formed. The face smiled at the child and got a smile in return.

A hand offered Kunle’s dismembered arm and the child hurried to feel its taste on her mouth. A pleased smile dawned on the apparition's face. The coven would have a new member.

The apparition cuddled the child and the child hugged back as a daughter would hug a mother.

Entry for Halloween Horror Writing Contest

Kindly Critique